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“Fucking slut.”
A broad hand connects with his cheek, open-palm, and it’s not a gentle love tap, it leaves a nettle-sting blush in it’s wake and snaps his head to the side. Gasping, Dean slides his tongue over the ridges of his teeth and pokes against the tender spot that’s left behind.
“This is where you belong.”
On his knees, naked, thin-worn motel carpet scratching his shins and Dean hopes - fucking aches - for rug-burns that’ll last for days.
Rolling a crick out of his shoulder, Dean sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and lets it pop back real slow as his mouth curls into a lewd smile, spit-wet. He knows he makes a pretty picture, the bedside lamp lighting a circle around itself that casts shadows in the corner and angles across his face. Sam’s still holding back, though.
Dean won’t have that.
“Think you can put me in my place, huh?”
The back of his shoulder is smarting; he had hit the edge of the table real good and it was a twist of agility on Sam’s part that kept him from smacking his head on the floor hard enough for a concussion.
Dean plays it on loop, some small part thinking about how that could of gone, if Sam would have still fucked him raw and made it count with Dean slipping in and out his own head.
There’s always next time.
Strong fingers grip his chin and there’s a thumb along his lip pulling. Sam digs into the hinge of Dean’s jaw, shoves a thumb between his teeth, and Dean squirms but his balance isn’t too good with his hands tied behind his back.
Belts are a little too thick and stiff to make a lasting hold, but he can play along.
“I know I can.”
There’s a hard edge to Sam’s voice and it shivers down Dean’s spine. The faintest guttering of fear flickers low in his belly, because he’s seen his brother like this on hunts and he knows how much of a beast Sam can be, but Sam never is to Dean. He can be needy, and a little pushy, but he doesn’t ever take the bait when Dean tries to goad him into something rougher.
Dean had dropped a few hints, but Sam can be surprisingly obtuse when it comes to this kind of stuff.
Pinching Dean’s nose closed, Sam looms over him and pries his mouth open, dick tapping on the underside of his chin with Sam’s pulse. One hand staking claim on Dean’s skin, Sam holds the base of his dick in the other and smacks it across Dean’s cheek. The act itself is debasing, reducing Dean down to his parts and showing him what his purpose is. But god he feels the heat and heft of his brother’s cock and his mouth is flooding.
Pre-come smeared across the stubble of Dean’s jaw, Sam holds him two-handed and ruts forward, misses the mark but Dean thinks he does it on purpose. Rubs his cock against Dean’s face, over the sting his hand left, along the pull of Dean’s lips against his teeth. Sam’s letting him feel it, think about it. Dean can’t help turning towards it, letting his mouth fall open. Wide head smearing the taste across his lips, bitter and warm, Sam shoves home.
“There you go.”
He doesn’t give Dean an inch or a breath, shifts his hands up into Dean’s hair and holds as he fucks forward. Stretches the hollow of Dean’s mouth and forces his way deeper without foreplay. When Dean’s nose is buried in the curls around Sam’s cock, he can feel the jagged teeth of open jeans scratching his chin.
Dean’s damn near close to retching and it wouldn’t be the first time but he’d really like not to. It takes a lot to make Dean feel degraded. The burn that hums under his skin makes his cock twitch, but there’s a fine line between some name-calling and face-slapping, and getting gagged on your own vomit.
He’s experienced that too, eyes stinging with the sour-sick come back up his throat, and the names that’d been hurled at him when he didn’t push the guy away only made him shiver with some self-deprecating vindication.
It’s better, coming from Sam, because Dean can let it sink into him and he can believe it- he deserves it he knows, he’s sick he knows - but he knows Sam doesn’t believe what he says. Somehow that makes it different.
He’s a back-alley boy, with gravel-scraped knees and brick-kissed palms, always used to have his for-pay mouth open wide, but it’s nothing like the supplication he pays to his brother. Dean hasn’t turned tricks since he picked Sam up at school, because he doesn’t really need the money of it, just the feel of it, the distraction.
Stomach turning, Dean feels his throat convulse and tries to tamp down how his body rejects what’s happening. Sliding a knee wider, toes curling against the rough carpet, his balance is in Sam’s hands and Dean’s starting to go light headed but he struggles for air through his nose and it feels like he has to unhinge his jaw to take his brother in, but he’d rip himself apart for Sam any day.
Spit sloppy, there’s a frantic sort of sound with every shove of Sam’s hips, a sucking wet noise and somehow Dean’s mind turns to the gurgle of sloshing laundry. Absurd, and strange, but he feels like he’s drifting sideways and not really there. Sam doesn’t pull back long enough for him to breathe through his nose enough to edge out the way his mind’s going soft and his vision unfocused.
He shakes with the spiraling high of being out of control. Lets it wash over him. It’s humiliating, or it should be, to be so powerless. But it’s strangely liberating, turning him inside out and there’s a whole new topography, exposed and raw, beneath his skin that quakes to be so exposed.
This kind of thing, this vulnerability, he can only get his fix with someone he trusts.
Let’s face it, there’d only ever be one.
“- are you even listening?”
Heaving to catch his breath, Dean blinks the black spots out of his vision and sways, mouth empty and sore. Tipping his head back he laughs at the little furrow in Sam’s brow. He could plant crops there, kid’s always got that damn furrow.
The choked sputtering noise is him laughing.
Sam slaps him hard enough his jaw throbs but it’s more a warning.
“S’not like I’m takin’ notes.”
Pain bursts hotly across one whole side of his face and everything tips sideways, something rough on his cheek, and huh, Sam knocked him over. Ain’t holding back. Dean’s body is still shaking with this giddy sort of amusement and he’s somewhere outside himself but it’s right where he wants to be. Observing from without. Tethered by the prick of pulled-hairs caught in a fist as Sam hauls him back to kneeling.
The balls of his shoulder-joints grind and the shift tugs at the belt around his wrists, gouging tighter, barbed heat spreading. Sam manhandles him and Dean’s got the perfect excuse to let his brother do just that, it’s not like Dean’s got any leverage here. Sam’s hands, rough fingertips and the curl of long fingers, surround his face and pry at his mouth. There’s a wet-cough noise of someone spitting and it catches Dean by surprise, hitting right at the back of the throat, grossly viscous and warm.
“Maybe you should.”
Chin messy with his own spit, dripping down wet on his chest, Dean still tries to swallow what Sam gives him. Getting over the initial coughing fit ain’t that bad. It seems thicker, swallowing someone else’s spit. Jaw still yanked opened with Sam’s fingers pressed against his teeth, spread over his tongue like a doctor’s depressor - say ah - Dean swallows and he watches the pleased grin that spreads Sam’s mouth wide.
Little brother always liked it when he could get a hand up, get a leg up, shove Dean’s face to the dirt sparring or win a sibling-war by the benediction of their father’s judgement when he gave it so sparsely to Sam over Dean.
Sam seems amused by this.
One hand on Dean, the other slides over his cock, taps it across Dean’s lips, thumb sliding to the corner as he drags the ridged fold on the underside around the outside of Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t struggle, his hands are going numb and his knees pulse with his heartbeat and the bolt of his jaw is aching. It’s perfect, Sam’s perfect, he doesn’t need any more encouragement with Dean’s backwards goading. So he waits for what Sam wants to do next.
“So pretty, how many guys have seen you like this?”
Dean can’t really answer with fingers and a cock in the way. There’s no deflecting or hiding, a curl of shame squirming in his gut like a tapeworm because he’s dirty, dirty. He is. And god he fucking enjoys it.
Sam’s getting off on it too.
Hand picking up pace, stripping his cock still spit-wet and warm from his brother’s mouth, and Dean opens wide for whatever Sam’ll give, but instead of shoving back into the dark welcoming clutch of his mouth Sam pulls back a little. Leans somehow even closer, curling over Dean, sliding a hand around his jaw to bristle the short hairs at his nape.
The first wet splash lands on a cheek and arcs up high enough Dean closes his eyes against it, feels it fall thick in his eyelashes and drip along the angled edges of his face. Bitter in his mouth and the scent is strong, familiar. Sam comes like an ascetic, like he’s been hiding and holding back and maybe he has, not like things had been regular between them since, since before.
Dean keeps his eyes closed, mouth open, feels it streak across his face and the wet slide of Sam’s cockhead against his lips at the last of it, pushing a few more pearl precious drops right onto Dean’s waiting tongue.
Sam’s hand cradles the side of his face, cheek faintly echoing with the hardest slap that sent him to the floor.
“Jesus, I can still see the outline of my hand on you.”
A gentler touch under his chin, moving his face, and Dean turns to rub against the calloused expanse of Sam’s palm. There’s a tenderness, now, to this, Sam examining the imprint he’s left. Dean’s cock is still aching hard and he could fucking cry if Sam doesn’t let him get off. Snagging his teeth against skin, Dean drags them across the wrist and bites the flesh of forearm.
“Just like a bitch.”
Sam taps him for the bite, lifts a booted foot and nudges Dean’s hard cock teasingly.
Collapsing forward, forehead pressed to the line of Sam’s hip, Dean nudges his hips up, rubs his cock against the rough underside of Sam’s boot.
“Bet you could get off just like that couldn’t you. You’re so easy.”
Shuffling on sore knees closer, Dean squeezes his eyes shut, smearing Sam’s own come on the soft worn fabric of his jeans. Blunt fingernails scratch furrows down the curve of Dean’s skull. Sam plants both feet on the floor, one on the outside of a thigh and one between. Dean, arms stiff sore and the muscles of his legs shaking, inches closer.
“That’s it. Come on, little closer. You’re gonna get off like a dog, if you wanna get off at all tonight.”
Burying a whine against the warmth of Sam’s body, Dean presses snug-close to him, curving his body against Sam’s leg, dragging his cock along the thick denim that feels too much, too rough, to sensitive skin, but god is he desperate. He can mold around his brother any way he needs to.
Sam mumbles something that sounds almost sweet, hands light on Dean’s shoulder, and he jigs his leg up and down to help Dean along. Grunting and panting, like a fucking bitch, Dean humps his brother’s leg and he’s so pathetically easy he gets off like that, still tacky with come and reeling from the violence of it, it makes it so so easy. Trembling with the dizzy rush, he rubs his come into the creases of Sam's jeans and collapses against him.
“Shit, your hands are kind of purple, hold on let me just…”
Dean does his best to stay upright, missing the warmth and solidity of Sam’s leg once his brother shifts and slips behind Dean, crouches down and starts working the belt loose. It wasn’t too tight, to start, Dean must of cinched it with his restlessness.
Arms falling leaden and useless to his side when Sam frees him, Dean feels a giddy laugh bubble up as he leans back against Sam. Floppy and stiff-jointed, doll-like, Sam huffs and tugs him up onto the closest bed.
“Hey, Dean, you alright?”
Concerned puppy-eyes blink above him and Dean reaches a hand starting to liven with sharp pins-n-needles up to pat Sam, ends up smacking uselessly against his chest.
“M’awesome, that was awesome.”
Sam huffs his concerned brotherly huff and gathers an arm into his lap as he settles beside Dean, working nimble fingers into the red gouged marks that stripe a wrist. He looks entirely too contemplating for what just went down, his come drying sticky still splashed across Dean’s face and he should clean that soon or it’s gonna get flaky-gross.
“Hey,” Dean curls more useful fingers now around Sam’s hand, “You alright?”
“I,uh,” Sam looks at him, looks away, skittish. Gathers Dean’s other hand and massages tenderly into sore bruised flesh, rotating the joints and Dean groans in pleasure for it. Sam shrugs one shoulder, frowns down at his lap. “I liked that a lot more than I thought I would.”
“So don’t brood.”
Dean gets a bitch face for that.
Rolling onto his side, stretching cramped legs out and rolling his ankles, Dean curves into Sam’s space. His jeans are still unbuttoned.
“S’rsly, don’t overthink it.”
Sam offers a weak smile, which softens as Dean mirrors it, before leaning down and kissing Dean softly on the forehead. Hey, whatever the kid needs to do to make himself feel better.
“Sit tight,” Sam tells him, like Dean has the capacity to do anything but lay on the bed feeling the blood waken up his fingers.
Retreating to the bathroom, Sam leaves the door open as he turns the tap and finds a washcloth. Dean still pulses like something scraped out and left exposed, all those nasty places inside of him broken open that he used to hide from Sam when they were all exploratory mouths and shy hands, before Sam left, before all of that. Dean’s always been this way, he just didn’t want his little brother to see, not when he was supposed to protect Sam. Maybe Sam’ll understand how much Dean needs him, now, not like it’s an obligation, just a fact of life. As simple as the basic efficacy of salt and iron. Dean likes getting fucked up, and he loves it when his brother does it.
The bed dips and Dean slides towards where Sam’s knelt at the edge, his jeans gone now and it’s all soft skin smelling of sweat and b.o.. A warm wet washcloth soothes over Dean’s face. Closing his eyes, loose-limbed suggestible, Dean lets Sam take care of him. Humming appreciatively for the care his brother gives him, Dean settles a hand in the small of Sam’s back and rubs circles against the bony curve of his spine.
Finished wiping Dean down, Sam tosses the washcloth in the corner and tugs Dean up higher onto the bed, worming the blankets out from under them, tapping off the bedside lamp. Dean knows what’s going down; he feels sated enough to go willingly. Curls onto his side with his back to Sam, an offer.
“All night?”
Comes a small, quiet voice behind him.
“C’mon gigantor, m’getting chilly here.”
Sam inches closer, drapes an arm over him, enfolds him in warmth and there are lips ghosting over the back of his neck. Dean's shameless when he squirms his ass back against Sam's soft cock. A broad hand spreads across his chest and holds.
So, cuddling, that’s a thing. He’s spent a lot of nights sleeping in the same bed as his brother, clothed and naked, but willingly giving Sam the ‘big spoon’ position isn’t a frequent occurrence. Dean has a feeling Sam needs it, something soft and intimate and possessive, and hey, if his brother can smack Dean around and choke him a little ‘cause Dean wants it, Dean can oblige his little brother too.